Dick and Jane

** This is an ending to a story starter from "On Writing" by Stephen King **


The moment I mute the over-tanned, hairsprayed reporter on the afternoon news, my ears pick up a movement in the stairwell around the corner. "Scout?" Silence. Did that dog run outside when I got home? Even so, he would bark his fool head off if anything was wrong. Then another soft noise, and I realize why I haven't heard him bark. Mommy's home. That's when I catch a whiff of the unmistakeable scent of Joy perfume. There's no more denying the confrontation that's bound to happen. I sit as calmly as I can at the kitchen island and wait. She'll come. She always did. She always will.

When she does round the corner moments later, scratching the dog's ears while he pants in bliss (some watchdog), I try not to let my face register the shock that's sent me reeling. Jane. My painfully beautiful, deceptively elegant ex-wife is someone I can barely recognize. Before the trial, she was a shapely, curvaceous woman, golden-skinned and bright-eyed. It wasn't until you really got to know her that those things were merely a shell for the Terminator-like coldness underneath. Now, though, her exterior has caught up. In the short year since she's been locked up, her curves are no longer delicately feminine, but chiseled and taut. Her peaches-and-cream complexion is ruddy and lightly wrinkled from working in the sun. Her honey-soft waves of hair are yanked back, severe and dull. But those eyes. Jane's eyes. Still as frosty and forbidding as always.

"You've redecorated."
"Hello, Janey."
"I like it."
"Why'd you come, Jane?"
"Pretty curtains." She ran her fingertips along the smooth counter, finally resting her calloused palm on my trembling hand. "Nice paint, too. Kudos to your decorator. Your taste has always been for shit."
"Jane...they'll know you're here."
"I might have gone with different appliances, though."
"JANE."
She finally looked at me. "Oh. He shouts now." She gave me the smile that I fell in love with so long ago. The smile that convinced me to say "I do."
"Dick. Love. Do you really think I'd come back here to hurt you?" Yes, you crazy bitch. "I imagine I'm in enough trouble already. That poor guard..."
"What the hell do you want, Jane? I don't think you stopped by for a chat about curtains and countertops."
"You always were a smart one. Smart enough to change the code on the safe, too."
"That's why you're here? Cash?"
"You bet your sweet ass it is. So. March on up there, crack that safe, and I'll be out of your hair for good."

I started to shake my head "No," but then my eyes fell on the portrait of Cindy, our - no, my - daughter, grinning her lopsided grin from the refrigerator.

"Okay. You win. I'll give you every penny if you give me your word you're gone forever."
"Tell you what, sugar." The Georgia drawl I once found so charming crept into her voice. "I'll even shake on it."
"Fine."

For the first time in 19 months, I took her hand. My traitorous fingers still wrapped around hers in spite of the pain, the insults, the stitches, the manipulation... I shook my head slightly, clearing the dangerous thoughts, and focused myself. I hooked my fingers around the drawer pull, noting their trembling and that I still saw a white band on the ring finger of my tanned left hand. Her sharp eyes caught my movement.

"What are you doing?"
"Relax. It's not like I dig in the safe on a daily basis. I just need to get the card where I wrote the new combination."
"Awww...aren't you the good little cub scout? Maybe I can stay a few extra minutes? Turn you into a tiger?" She winked as she sashayed to the stairs.
Sliding the drawer shut, I walked softly behind her. I laid a gentle hand on her bare neck, considering her invitation. She leaned into my touch and giggled. "I have missed you," I sighed. I raised my left hand, again seeing the telltale evidence of our former union, and plunged the syringe deep into her jugular.



The medics pulled the white sheet over her inert body and gave me the forms for my signature. Under "Cause of Death," they had written "Myocardial Infarction." Heart attack.
I never thought I would be grateful for the drugs in the kitchen drawer.
The insulin shots I needed to keep around for my daughter.
Too bad Jane never knew Cindy was diabetic.

Too bad.

Loving and Hating the Ginger (Memoir - your life in hair)

Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen
Give me down to there, hair, shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there, momma, everywhere, daddy, daddy
Hair, flow it, show it
Long as God can grow, my hair


Somewhere in the boxes of my mother’s “The Life of Angie” memorabilia, lives a ratty, navy blue folder from St. Anthony Catholic School. In this folder is my kindergarten “Me” project. There are little coloring sheets decorated with scribbles in my unsteady, five-year-old hand. Pages about who we live with, what our mommies and daddies do for work, what we want to be when we grow up (I apparently wanted to be a nurse!) and then there’s the page where we describe ourselves. Are we tall? Short? What color are our eyes? Our hair?

I am ___________________________.

I have _________________________ eyes,

and my hair is _____________________.

In the last blank, I wrote in my unpracticed hand the word "gold." Yep. Gold. I went through a period where I was adamantly opposed to my red hair. It was awful. It was terrible. It was…weird. This was all turned around one day by Opa. I was visiting my grandparents’ house and my mom told them about my latest drama. He sat me on his lap and we had a little chat.

“Ja, Anchie. Your mama said you no like your hair?”

* snuffle * “Noooooo!”

“You know my sister Elly, she has the red hair, too.”

“I know.”

“And my brother Anthony. And Elly’s little girl Mikey. They have the red hair.”

“I knoooowwww.”

“But you know what?” His bushy eyebrows rose as he looked me in the eye. “It’s not red!”

?????

“It’s gold!”

!!!!!

“Ja! It’s gold! And it’s only for the special people. Like you, and my brother and sister, and your cousins.”

“Gold? Hair?”

“Ja, Anchie! So you should always love your beautiful gold hair, and don’t you let anyone say anything bad. You hear?”

“Yes, Opa!” I slid off his lap and ran to Oma’s dresser for her little silver mirror and smiled at my gold hair.




“Excuse me, miss?”

“Yes?”

“Can I axe you somethin’ real quick? A favor?”

“Okay. What is it?”

“Can I touch your daughter’s hair?”

“Excuse me?”

“Please. Can I touch your daughter’s hair?”

“Sure, go ahead!”

The wrinkled hand gently caressed the crown of my head, the elderly black woman’s skin thin as tissue paper and soft as butterfly wings. She closed her eyes, smiled, and sighed.

“Thank you, miss.”

“You’re welcome…but can I ask why?”

“Oh, miss, red hair like this? Your baby’s gonna have good luck, and now I can too. Thank you so much, miss.”

“Yes, ma’am…I hope you do have good luck!”

This actually happened more than once to my mother and I as we walked through the French Quarter on weekends or waited for Mardi Gras parades to pass. The first time, she admits, was pretty weird, but after that she didn’t think twice about granting the simple request of these adorably superstitious ladies. I just liked the attention!




Question: What do two bored girls do on a Saturday night when it’s raining and nothing’s good at the movies? Answer: Go to Walgreens and buy hair dye!

That’s what Jen and I did one weekend during the spring of my junior year. I had been dunking my head in bowls of super-concentrated black cherry Kool-Aid for weeks, but it washed out in a few days and turned the shower floor red (which didn’t exactly please the mother figure). We decided it would be just brilliant to go ahead and do something more long-lasting. Of course I couldn’t do something subtle or close to natural. I chose black. Superman black. The darkest, deepest black available. It was actually called “blue-black.”

I loved it. For about a week. Then I realized it looked a little out of place on my pale, freckled skin. Then I noticed that red roots were starting to peek. Then I discovered that it wasn’t lightening even a little bit. Then we tried to strip it out, which gave me leopard-print hair. Then that led to cutting off about eight inches of it. Then my new cut looked like the butt-end of a red chicken.

Once the growing and stripping and trimming and conditioning was all said and done, I got myself back to my normal, ginger self. I’ve dyed it again here and there over the years since, but never so drastically, and usually with immediate regret.




Now I love my red curls, even when I hate them. And I hope my Petite Rouge loves hers.

Headache (Eleven - an incident with a bully)

The time? A lovely spring day in south Louisiana…sun shining, crepe myrtles in riotous pink bloom, cotton candy clouds cruising past.

The place? A high school quad…a grassy rectangle where the B-lunch crowd mingled, gossiped, and sprawled in the sun like lizards. Red brick walls provided shade, and small raised nooks gave a secret place for smokers to gather, their black-dyed hair, Metallica shirts, and leather jackets unseemly for the cheerful day. The grunge kids frolicked near the stairwell by the arts class, unaware that their idol was merely weeks away from taking his own life. In the center, just in front of the cafeteria doors, is a flagpole set into a concrete base, and this is where our story begins…

A young girl (let’s call her Angie…what the hell…) who is normally fully ensconced in the typical teenage chitchat and friendly flirting is off by herself today. She had a headache. No big deal, really. Just needed a break from the noise. So she moved away from the group to sit at the base of the flagpole and take five. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up to the blazing sun, which at first kind of scraped at her brain like a cheese grater, but then started to feel good. Kind of like a massage hurts at first, but then there’s that “ahhhhhhh.” You know. The hot concrete and metal warmed her from the inside, and the earthy breeze blowing in from the Mississippi River filled her lungs with warmth. The headache was beginning to subside.

She nestled into her fuzzy sweater and scraped the soles of her worn-out Chucks on the sidewalk to accompany the chorus of “Friday, I’m in Love” that was playing in her head.

A shadow crossed over her.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She looked up at the intruder, squinting. “What?”

A toe nudged hers. “What’s wrong with you?”

Ugh. David Hamback. (Seriously. That was this kid’s name. He’d been a zit in their school for years.) “I. Have. A. Headache. That’s. Why. I’m. AWAY.”

“Oooohhhh…” (The Neanderthal’s eyes lit up.) “Your head hurts?”

Boy. A genius! “Yes. That’s generally what a headache means.”

“You know what else hurts?” (Is this a trick question?)

“What?”

“This.” With that, his meaty hand snarled in her hair, right at the nape of her neck, and he yanked a handful of red curls.

She leapt from her perch, incredulous, too stunned to say anything.

And then it happened. The whole slow-pan, muted voices, blurry faces, jaws dropping, cheesy movie scene…thing. Angie reared back an arm and swung. The little, balled fist connected with his fleshy jaw with a thud. Then both just stared. Four things then happened simultaneously. One – the laughter began, of course. Two – he shook his head like a dog after a bath, but with a much funnier expression (shock and humiliation, maybe?). Three – Mr. Garrison, the extremely intimidating school disciplinarian, left his perch on the steps and walked toward her with a look of purpose. Four – Angie burst into hysterical tears.

Mr. Garrison strode to where she was standing, still crying, and took her by the arm. “Come on, Miss Smoorenburg.”

She glanced at her friends. Chad and Van were giving thumbs-ups, Cassie was grinning ear-to-ear, and Stephen and Chris offered to take her to dinner. Angie turned and faced doom in the form of a six-foot-four, shiny-headed black man who was built like a tank. Head hung, defeated, still snuffling, she followed him to his office.

They sat in the cool cinderblock room on opposite sides of his desk. He glared down, like an angry Buddha, elbows on the desk and fists under his chin so only his eyes looked across at her. Angie let out a pathetic squeak as she tried to explain herself. “Mr. Gar-“

“Stop.” He held out a paw the size of a baseball mitt. “Just stop right there.” Oh, God. This is going to suck so bad… “You still hungry?”

What? “What?”

“You still hungry?”

“Um. Not really?”

“I saw what that boy did. He been axin’ for that for a long time. You alright, honey.”

ohmygodohmygodohmygod

“I’m…not in trouble?”

“Take a few minutes, calm down, and you can go back to class. I’m going to get some coffee.”

Angie saw his shoulders shaking with laughter as he left the office, leaving her to wonder what exactly inspired his mercy. Was it the damsel-in-distress factor? Was it that she was obviously upset about the whole thing? Or did the grownups in charge secretly enjoy seeing the school buttheads get taken down a notch? She never asked, but each time she saw him after that, he gave her a wink and a smile.

Croissant d'Or (Memoir - a building that's important)

I place my hand on the window of the ancient, peeling, wooden door and push. A brass bell jingles and a whiff of espresso and buttery, sugared pastries greets me as I enter the French Quarter coffeehouse. The left side of the space is filled with a charming array of mismatched tables and chairs, and to the right is a massive oak counter and pastry case, every surface covered with jars of cookies, bags of coffee beans, mixed with fliers for this weekend’s hot concerts. Our friendly barista greets us with a grin, smiling through pierced lips and tongue. My friends and I place our orders and chat over the roar of the espresso machine. Coffees in hand, we make our way to the courtyard out back.

Floor-to-ceiling French doors lead the way outside, and we step into tropical splendor. Ferns hang from balconies, palm trees arch over the tiny tables, and ivy covers the weather-worn brick walls. We choose a table in a corner, near a bubbling fountain, and settle in for some writing and relaxing.

Three other people are in the courtyard, each in their own private silence.

A businessman, on a mid-morning break from the glass walls of his office building, I would guess, sits at the center table. He is tap-tap-tapping furiously on his laptop, ending each burst with a decisive whack on the keyboard. As he does this, he is fiddling with his ear. He looks nervous, and it’s a tic that seems totally out-of-character with his put-together, in-control aura. Part of me wants to ask what’s wrong, but I hear my mother in my head telling me I know better.

The corner table diagonal from us is occupied by a rumpled, academic sort. The cobblestones beneath him are littered with pastry wrappers, crumpled sheets of looseleaf, and dog-eared paperbacks that I recognize from my college lit classes. The telltale white cords extend from his ears, and he occasionally bursts into action, drumming a rhythm on the table. He refills his ceramic mug at least three times, and I have a feeling the caffeine is fueling what will be an all-day study session.

There is a table almost hidden by palm fronds, and this is the resting place for the third person out here. I see a pair of calf-high, black patent Doc Martens at the end of a pair of stretched-out legs. Red-and-black striped tights lead up to a black miniskirt held closed by a few dozen safety pins. A vintage Kinks t-shirt tops off the outfit, and her hair is streaked red and black to match.

I know I’m supposed to be writing, because technically that’s the mission for the morning, but this motley crew is too fun to resist. I lean back in my wrought-iron chair and wonder how an eclectic group like this has come together. We’re not at the Starbucks on the main road. Croissant d’Or is off the beaten path and could easily be mistaken for someone’s house if you don’t know what you’re looking for. It’s the kind of place a person seeks out deliberately, and I love that we’re all strangers sharing the companionable silence.

Lucky Dog

Friday night.
Apathy sets in.
Off we go
to the playground of sin.


Bourbon Street
all aglow.
Drunkards and strippers
roam to and fro.


From Bar A to Club B
we shimmy and shake,
and after four hours
our bellies do quake.


For alcohol? No.
Something much keener.
We set out in search
of a big, tasty wiener.


One block, then two.
We need to be fed.
There it is! The beckoning cart,
bright yellow and red.


We pass over our cash,
we sing and we cheer,
'Cause we're stuffing a Lucky Dog
On top of our Big Ass Beer.

À la tombe du Marie Laveau

Marie traced her name on the bronze plaque affixed to the concrete and marble tomb. Her fingertip stung as it followed each letter on the blistering memorial. The New Orleans sun blazed on her bare mahogany shoulders and the humid air caressed her elegantly outstretched arm. How strange to see your own name on a grave, she thought. St. Louis Cemetery #1 was opened in 1789 and her great-great-great grandmother was buried there almost 100 years later, long before the red-brick pathways were taken over by clover and dandelions, long before rust blossomed on the wrought-iron railings. All this faith. She marveled at the mementos left at the foot of the tomb. Bouquets of flowers, once vibrant, but now dehydrated by constant, fierce sunshine. Yellowed photos, cracked around the edges. And everywhere, the "XXX" left as a sign of hope that their wishes and prayers would be answered. Marie glanced around. Nobody here but me and the mosquitoes. She trailed the glass shard across her index finger and drew her own red X's on the tomb. "Dearest Marie...since I was a baby, my mama always told me I had your gift. Help me use it well. Help me stay true." She kissed the scorched stone, and turned away.

"Mom! Come see this one!" "Oh, honey, get the camera, would you?" "And if you read the sign on this memorial..." "Daaaaaaddddd...I'm hooootttttt..." Sharon tried her hardest to block out the guide and the rest of her babbling group. They clucked like a flock of hens. She trained her ears on the wisp of improvised lonely jazz notes, floating to her from the saxophonist across the street. She really had no desire to take the whole cemetery tour with her church group, but when she discovered that this particular tomb was included, she signed up. The bare, pale skin on her scalp was tingling beneath the red bandana she wore. St. Joseph Ladies' Auxiliary had been wonderful over the last few years, bringing tuna casseroles, shuttling Brian and Tracy to games and rehearsals, holding prayer circles...the church was conservative and traditional, and that was her comfort. But how many prayers do Jesus, God, Mary, St. Jude, and all the others does it take to hear the magic word? Remission. Three tiny syllables. "Sharon! Come on, lady! Catch up!" "On my way!" She watched the ladies of St. Joseph turn the corner and disappear into the maze of cracked and ancient mausoleums. She unwrapped the red bandana, relishing the direct sunlight on her naked skin. She folded it and nestled it with the other offerings of candles, baseballs, and Mardi Gras beads. She took her red Clinique lipstick from her purse and drew three red X's. "Marie. It's come back four times. Please say a prayer that it stays away for good this time." A tear fell and disappeared into the steamy bricks at her feet as she pressed her forehead to the tomb.

The police sirens wailed past the weathered, red-brick wall, which didn't do anything to muffle the shrill sound. Lamar's head was bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped so tight that his ebony knuckles looked almost pink. "Marie, God ain't listenin'. He never did." A tear slid down his cheek, leaving a shimmering trail in the moonlight. A balmy, swamp-scented breeze cooled his skin. He clutched his hands tighter, and the muscles in his wiry, tattooed arms bunched. "I don't know what to do no more. T-Paul won't mind me. Not now that he think he growed up." The sirens continued, waves of sound rising and washing over him. "Please, please don't let those be for him." Lamar knelt. The phone in his pocket buzzed, but he ignored it. "I ain't seen him in three days now, mama's sick from cryin', an I done look everywhere." Lamar gazed at the cool marble, his heart as cold as the stone itself. His eyes traced the markings left by so many others in prayer and knew it was time to leave his own. He lit a stick of incense and watched the glowing ember for a moment. "Marie, I know I'm done for. Ain't nothin' gon' save me now." He scraped the red-orange tip along the stone. X. "My little bro don't need to end up like me." He scratched again. X. "Watch over 'im. Keep 'im straight. I'll do anything." One more motion. X. Lamar vaguely noticed that the sirens had stopped. His phone buzzed again. He tapped the screen. "Found him. Come home." Lamar kissed the tomb, jumped the wall, and headed down to the Lower 9.

Opa...

I remember hearing stories over the years about Opa being a tough dad. It always seemed odd to hear them, because I literally cannot remember a time that any of us “little ones” ever really got scolded or corrected by him. Even if it completely upset him that we would destroy his shed on a regular basis, looking for paint and wood scraps for our latest architectural venture, he basically let it go.

I guess that’s the perk of being a grandkid.

Our Opa became the neighborhood Opa. I’m still not sure some of our friends even knew he had a name until we were at least teenagers, and the fact that at least a dozen unrelated children comfortably called him “Opa” is a testament to the kind of man he was.

While Opa wasn’t as openly cuddly or traditionally affectionate as some grandfathers may be, he was always, always thinking about his family. Not that there weren’t the occasional bear hugs, but more often his love was shown through a ruffling of our hair and a “Ja, girl…” as he passed by. If he found a magazine article or National Geographic he thought one of us would like, he made sure we got it. If there was an animal or place we liked, we got a handmade statue of it. Our favorite colors, teams, and cartoon characters were turned into fuzzy pillows. There are quite a few little wooden desks floating around our houses that the next generation of Smoorenburg babies will be big enough to use pretty soon.

Opa is always on our radar, consciously or not. Sometimes, his comfort with a person served as a barometer for predicting the longevity of our romances. If Opa liked our “friends” enough to spend time telling him stories about WWII or his days as a Merchant Marine, we knew he was a keeper. Other times, we could hear the buzz of a plane and automatically think “Opa would know what that is.” Even little things like grocery shopping are touched, like when there’s an interesting little oily canned fish on the shelf and our first thought is “Ooh…Opa would love that.”

While it is easy to imagine Opa as a father with high standards for his kids, a boss with the same for his employees, and a scout master doing likewise with his troop, we got, in the most traditional sense of the word, a “grandpa.” We got a piano-playing, storytelling, craft-making, tripod-loving man who could do a mean shuffle on the dance floor.